Once
by lozzieee dreams
Summary: Dave Lister is the last human, and he's so alone. Arnold Rimmer, tired of the silence, decides to commit his first selfless act in the whole of his existence. Is once enough?


One day. That's all he wanted.

David Lister, the last human being alive, stared through the tiny, round window in his sleeping quarters. The bed was hard and uncomfortable, but it was less hard and uncomfortable than the metal chair, the only piece of furniture in the room besides the metal table. Lister lay on his front, his rasta-plaits over his left shoulder as his fingers knotted below his chin. The stars were bright in the clear, empty vacuum of space, but he could not see them.

Just one night.

"Moping again, I see?" The voice was sudden, but Lister only blinked his reaction. He was heard before he was seen, Lister's self-deprecating half-man of a bunk mate - always there with the put downs whenever Lister least needed them. The dread-locked man just sighed as Arnold J. Rimmer jogged into the room, running on the spot for a moment before chirpily checking his watch.

"Six minutes and twenty-seven seconds; not a bad little time for the mile!" he beamed. He looked up, his face dropping into mild confusion amidst frustration. "Pity I was only doing the three-hundred metres."

Lister just blinked again. He had no patience left for Rimmer's pathetic little idiosyncrasies - any brain power he had was used to reminisce and regret. As he pictured that face - the stuff of tales told to impress mates in the pub - his eyes filled up and he coughed, surreptitiously wiping the brown orbs on his wrists.

Just one night.

Rimmer flopped heavily down into the metal chair, his knees splayed and his wrists folded unceremoniously in his boxer-clad lap. Distaste coloured his face as he stared at the opposite wall, which was as grey as the rest of the room, the rest of the ship.

The gangly man was sick of his bunkmates self-serving whinging. Rimmer knew what it was about, of course he did - Lister never stopped mentioning it in his sleep. The shorter man never spoke to anyone about it awake; he hardly ever spoke to anyone anymore. And as much as Rimmer detested the gerbil-faced inbred, he hated to see the closest thing to a friend he had in such a deep depression.

An idea had been floating around his narrow mind for a few weeks now, and Rimmer had to admit it would work and was arguably one of the best he'd had in his life - and post-life. But he could never let himself go through with it. A non-existence, even if for a few short hours, was his personal idea of hell. Being a simulation of his former self was bad enough.

But for a few hours of peace from Lister's silent nostalgia would be a blessing, even if it wouldn't be a permanent fix.

In those short moments, Rimmer made up his mind. He decided that, for probably the first time in his existence, he would do the decent thing. Even if it was to only be for twenty-four hours. Surely Holly could do something to make it the best possible experience for Lister.

Rimmer stood up, flexing his shoulders and then clapping his hands; Lister barely flinched, blinking again instead. Without a word, but with a small clearing of his throat, Rimmer slowly walked out of the room, his mind fully focussed on the sacrifice he was about to make.

Lister didn't even notice.

Machines beeped and lights flashed in every corner of the room; a disk whirred and images glinted across the many screens on the walls, but Rimmer ignored them. The only screen worth bothering with on this ship was the one on the desk in front of him, upon which the face of the ship's resident senile computer was emblazoned.

"And you would turn me straight back on, after twenty-four hours?" Rimmer asked, chewing on his hologrammatical nails.

"Of course, Arn," the blonde haired, wide-eyed floating head nodded.

"You absolutely promise?"

"It's a done thing," she replied, no hint of anything but her usual look of bamboozlement upon her face.

Rimmer sighed. He'd never done anything this grandiose for anyone in his entire life. Not even Yvonne McGruder, his one and only brief liaison when alive. He still couldn't explain to himself why he was so compelled to help ease Lister's pain - it wasn't like the piece of filth had ever done anything this amazing for him.

In Rimmer's mind, he saw it as his own charity. He was a good man whose intentions were misunderstood - he tried his best, but everyone only seemed to notice his failures. Maybe, just maybe, doing this for Lister would earn him that speck of love and respect that he'd desired since he was a small child.

Not that he would ever let anybody know that.

"Alright then," Rimmer sighed. "Do it."

There was a small click in the ambience of the room, and Rimmer sighed again. The dizzied computer stared up at him and he stared away from her, his eyes making undying friends with the floor. If Rimmer could have discerned temperature, he'd have said it was far too warm in the Hologram Projection Suite. But that was one thing his hard-light form protected him from.

"All ready, Arn," Holly prompted. "All you have to do it press that big red button."

Rimmer sighed a third and final time. Closing his eyes, he held out his arm, his fingers brushing the top of the large, red button. He memorised the feel of it - touch was no longer a novelty for him, the revelry of his hardlight form having worn off fairly rapidly - as his hand hovered.

The hologram suite crackled with electricity and Rimmer could feel it across his simulated skin - if he was alive, his heartbeat would have risen and goosebumps would have spread over his form. The silence deafened him, and he could taste the warmth and humidity on his false tongue.

Knowing he was close to changing his mind, the hologrammatic man curled his long, bone-white fingers into a tight fist and thumped down on the damning button. Electricity shot through his body from the heart of his image, erasing him from his light-bee outwards.

And then it was black.

Lister was still staring out of the window. The stars were ever so slightly different stars to the ones he had been staring at when Rimmer left, but they were still stars, and they still remained invisible to Lister's blind and tired eyes. Stars were just stars, memories were just memories, and life was just life.

Nothing special.

He didn't hear the doors open, nor did his ignorant eyes and ears notice the presence in the room. He continued to stare blankly, his mind slowed down to a dull ache now that his memories were too abused to relive anymore.

"Hello, Dave."

The voice was familiar, but Lister couldn't place it. He had been in the same position for what felt like years, and it was near impossible for him to move. Slowly, his brain whirred into life and began to pry around, searching for the reason the new voice was so familiar. Like pulling frogspawn from muddy water, he was finally able to dredge up a faint memory.

His tired heart skipped a beat and his bored veins tingled, the voice ringing in his ears like the sweetest of wind chimes. It was the most enchanting melody, set to the purest silence his ears had ever experienced. As quickly as tree limbs sprout, Lister turned his head.

She was as the day he'd left her.

Barely five and a half feet tall, she was even shorter than Lister. Slim yet curved, she was perfect to his lonely eyes. They raised to her face and she smiled - he lost his breath. Like a pinball machine paying out the jackpot, her smile hit her bright eyes, lighting them up like Blackpool at Christmas time. She wasn't a day over twenty-five.

"Hey, Dave," she repeated, this time in little more than a whisper.

Lister moved faster than he'd ever done in his life; in one, swift, fluid moment, he was down from his permanent roost on his bunk and stood two paces before her, his wild eyes wide in disbelief. It was a while before he spoke.

"How?" he asked, finally and unintelligently.

She shrugged. "One minute, I was standing - alive - in the Drive Room, and now I'm here."

Lister looked at the floor, a wave of sadness washing over him. It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling - it was the same one he'd felt the very first time he'd walked the empty ship, while Holly had explained what had happened, and that the whole crew was dead. He'd felt it for the whole crew, but more for the beautiful woman whose carbon copy was stood in front of him now.

"Did it hurt?" he asked quietly, not looking up.

She shrugged again, and he watched her walk slowly away from him in his peripheral; he followed her. She hoisted her small frame up with her long, thin arms - he did the same - and they sat, side by side on his little bunk.

"I don't really remember it. It didn't register, really, because it happened so quick."

"Rimmer always said that being dead was like being on holiday with a bunch of German tourists."

Kochanski mulled the idea over, tasting it in her mouth before answering. "Yes. I suppose it is."

She chuckled lightly, Lister along with her. The laughter ended as soon as it started, and Lister looked down at his fingers, which were knotting nervously. He had an idea in his mind of what he wanted to say, but couldn't bring himself to.

Kochanski got there first: "I've really missed you, Dave."

Lister sighed, closing his eyes. He'd been wanting to hear that voice for so long, hear it say those words to him in that tone, with that much heart. He couldn't even say anything in reply. All he could do was turn to his side and press his lips firmly to the hardlight hologram's beside him.

She responded appropriately, kissing him back tenderly and snaking her arms around his neck. His arm slithered of its own accord around her waist, but his hand consciously found her face. She still felt warm, still felt alive. If it wasn't for the fact that he couldn't hear or feel a heartbeat, he could swear she was as much flesh and blood as him.

Lister never needed to push the night any which way - everything seemed to slot into place, as naturally as breathing in and out.

The smell of her simulated skin ensnared his senses and infected his every thought process. She was hot to the touch as their bodies laid together, flush. Her cheeks filled with colour and the sweat dewed on her forehead, matting her hair to her temples and dripping slowly down the shape of her delicate neck.

He entwined his fingers with hers as she gripped the mattress, and kissed at her neck as she let her head fall back. He held her waist tightly, as if she were nothing but a mirage that would disappear if he let go. Their breathing made music in the silent air, their voices playing a melody so sweet to Lister's ears that he committed it to memory like his favourite song.

Lister had never made love like that before: it was slow, every sensation amplified and every move composed so their bodies moved in synchrony. Everything she did seemed designed to make him feel like the most perfect human in the universe, like he wasn't alone, like he wasn't the hopeless human wreckage he knew he was.

It was ten am the next day, ship time, when they finally collapsed in each others arms, naked and panting, too exhausted to carry on. Even in his tiredness, Lister could not leave her alone. He wrapped his arms around her small frame and held her close, his pudgy face buried in the crook of her neck.

And without warning, he began to cry.

"What's wrong?" Kochanski asked, smoothing the tight curls at the side of his head gently in order to comfort him.

He sobbed once. "I've just missed you so much."

"I'm so sorry," she replied, after a long, echoing silence.

"Why?"

"Because I have to leave soon."

Lister tried not to let the words hit him too hard, but they winded him like a swift punch to the stomach. He tried not to make it obvious in his actions, but he couldn't help sobbing. He tried not to feel anything, but his heart felt like it had stopped and his stomach felt like it had imploded.

"I'm so sorry," she repeated.

All he could do was nod.

The next ten hours were some of the best and worst of Lister's life after his metaphorical death six years previously. They made love twice more, and then once in the shower afterwards.

Kochanski cooked him lunch; he had Shami Kebab Diablo, and she had roast chicken and vegetables. They talked about what their future would have been like, how they'd have had two children - twin boys, Jim and Bexley - and a farm on Fiji, where they would have sheep, cows, and three horses which they would breed. They wouldn't have been three million years in the future, drifting aimlessly and heartbreakingly alone. They would have had each other, forever and ever, until death and beyond.

As the hours ticked on, Lister neglected the feeling of impending loss that lingered at the back of his mind. He knew she'd be gone soon, the hypothetics of their future together just that: musings on things that could never happen. And as the hours ticked closer to seven pm, they made love once more and laid in each others arms.

At six pm, Kockanski climbed down from Lister's bunk and got dressed. The last hour of their time together was spent in the worst way; Lister spewed to this simulation of the woman he loved everything he'd never said to the real thing. She nodded and smiled in all of the right places, said everything Lister wanted her to say, and held him when he needed holding.

Then, at ten minutes to deadline, they linked fingers and started on what felt like the longest journey of Lister's life down to the Hologram Projection Suite.

Holly guided Lister through the procedure. She remained unemotional and unsympathetic, a neutral force in the face of Lister's undying love. Once everything was finally in place, at ten past seven, Lister made his goodbyes.

He stood, aged and hunched in front of his ideal, and looked her directly in her huge eyes. Hologrammatic tears welled up in them, and he wiped the specks of light away with his thumbs.

"I love you," he whispered. "And I'm gonna miss you so much." He paused, his breathing hitching slightly as his own tears threatened on the edges of his lashes. "I hope that, one day, we'll find each other again."

He stepped back from her form and gently pressed the big red button. As her image began to fade, she said only one thing.

"Goodbye, Dave."

And then she was gone.

Lister collapsed, his knees hitting the hard, grey, metal flooring with a resounding thud, his kneecaps taking all of the force and popping dangerously.

Holly left the screen in the Suite surreptitiously, unable to cope with Lister's agonised wails. She had known it wasn't a good idea, that seeing Kochanski one last time would kill him all over again, but she understood Rimmer's reasons. She left him alone, remotely manoeuvring the now lifeless light-bee to the sleeping quarters so it could regenerate away from the scene.

It was several hours before Lister made his journey back to the bunks, a six-pack of Glen Fujiyama in one hand and a bottle of self heating Sake in the other. Walking through the door, her scent hit him square in his drunken face and nearly sent him flying.

Rimmer sat at the cold, metal table in the lounge area, flicking through the book he was pretending to read. Lister's eyes found him and focussed slowly on his form. Rimmer felt his eyes and cleared his throat nonchalantly, pretending not to notice him.

Lister just stood and stared, his eyes slightly squinted through the murkiness of the alcohol. Eventually, Rimmer looked up at his bunkmate, his almond-shaped brown eyes almost apologetic as he surveyed the drunken wreck before him. Holly had briefed the hologram on Lister's breakdown, and now Rimmer regretted his little selfless act.

"Uhm…" Rimmer cleared his throat once more, setting down Napoleon's war diary on the table, looking away from his only friend. "How are you?"

Lister didn't answer right away. He searched for words to describe his feelings, but none were appropriate or accurate enough.

"I feel like hell," was as close as he could articulate.

Rimmer sighed, his simulated insides feeling like they'd just been put through a blender.

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" Lister asked, confused.

"For…" Rimmer thought carefully about his choice of words. "For doing that to you."

Lister slowly shook his head. "No, man."

Rimmer's eyes shot up, and he watched Lister's face split in half with a smile that looked almost painful.

"I'm thankful," he said.

"But… but you're depressed. You're so hurt and it's all my fault."

"Yeah," Lister conceded. "But it was the best day of my life. I don't regret one second."

Rimmer was stunned. Here Lister stood before him, shit-faced and comatose, his heart broken into several million pieces and his stomach almost sick with loss, but happy and sans remorse. Nothing about him spoke regret.

"But why?" Rimmer asked, completely perplexed.

"Because I got my goodbye. That's all I ever wanted. She never said goodbye. And I know, everything was simulated. But I got my goodbye; I got one more chance."

Lister walked slowly - swaying dangerously - over to Rimmer, who shrank slowly into the cold, metal chair. Instead of inflicting harm, Lister placed a hand softly on his bunkmate's shoulder.

"Thank you," was all he said, before walking away and leaving the room.

Rimmer couldn't help but smile. It was a good feeling, knowing he'd helped Lister feel better. He'd never been that selfless in his life, not even close, and now he wished he had. Maybe he could have made an effort, he could have made a difference. Maybe things would have been easier.

But even once was enough, and Rimmer couldn't have felt better about himself in that moment. For the first time in his life, he felt like he had a friend, and he felt truly happy. Rimmer realised, in that moment, that Lister had changed him, warmed his feelings and soothed his bitterness. Even in his atrocious personal hygiene and his annoying mannerisms, Lister was a good man - and he'd made Rimmer a better man, too.

Lister had been taken to ultimate highs and ultimate lows in the course of twenty-four hours, and didn't regret a single minute. If he hadn't explained it - with atypical eloquence - Rimmer would never have understood.

That sometimes, it's better to hurt than to feel nothing at all.


End file.
